“Why are you shouting at me? I’m just asking!” She raises her voice now. Your mother doesn’t raise her voice very often. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’m tired of you taking it out on me.”
“Well, I’m tired of you snooping through my room and getting into my business!”
“You’re myson,” she says. “Youare my business. Why are you so upset with me? Is it about Hope?”
No, it’s not about a girl, even if she was nice, because you were never anything more than friends with her, though you did feel like crap turning her down when she asked you on a real date. You should’ve just said yes, should’ve kissed her on the lips instead of the cheek after Sweetheart, should’ve slow danced and fast danced and whatever kind of dance would let people know youdolike her, like girls, like that, instead of being a coward.
“No, it’s not about her, it’s not about anything. Would you just leave me alone?” Your voice is hoarse, cracking in the middle, and you’re cracking, too, because everything inside you is swirling, about to burst, and you can’t handle it.
You can’t.
But your mother won’t leave you alone. Instead she reaches for you. You back away, and she flares her nostrils, and finally she snaps and shouts, “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”
And you snap, too, splitting like a dry old twig, as you shout back, “Because if I do you won’t love me!”
Maman reels back, like you’ve caught her with a cross to the jaw.
No, she just steps back, hand over her heart, like you stabbed her in it. She presses her lips together and takes another step away from you, and the backs of her knees hit your bed and she sits with a soft cry.
You don’t know why you said that.
You don’t know why you do anything anymore.
But your mother is crying now, and you’re crying, too, hot fat tears that sting your cheeks.
You didn’t mean to make her cry.
You’re sorry, but your throat is tied in a knot, so you can’t say it. All you can do is cry yourself.
Your mom clears her throat and blinks. She takes a deep breath and looks up at you, and you want to shrink away from her eyes, because even now they’re full of nothing but kindness.
Persian has lots of poetic ways of telling someone you love them.You are my soul. OrI’d become a sacrifice for you. Or evenI’ll eat your liver.
But your mom says it in English instead:
“I love you.”
Your heart squeezes tight, so hard you think you might double over, but you try to breathe.
“I will always love you. Your father and I crossed an ocean for the love of you, maman. Why would you ever think I’d stop?”
You cry harder now, because you know she and Baba gave up everything they knew—their lives, their families, their friends, theirhome—when they left Iran. And they did it for you and Jina and Nadeem. Because they love you.
Your mother stands again, steps in close, and when you don’t back off, she pulls you into a hug. You’re taller than her—you have been since last year—but this is the first time you’ve noticed just how much. You could rest your chin on her head if you wanted to, but you don’t want to. You wish you were small again, small enough that her hugs felt like they were the whole world, like you didn’t need to breathe as long as you were in her arms.
But you hug her back, hard, and that tightness in your heart moves up into your throat. You can’t tell her.
You can’t.
You can’t tell anyone.
You don’t want it to be true.
But you don’t want to make your mother cry, either.
“Azizam,” she says. “It’s okay.”
You shake your head. It’s not okay.
